


Oublie-moi (Forget me (not))

by Exces_KaboomBOOM



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Developing Relationship, It's a tragic ship and I love tragedy so beware, M/M, Martin is a walking heartbreak, Match made in... the Lonely, Peter is a romantic monster, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 23:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19306390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exces_KaboomBOOM/pseuds/Exces_KaboomBOOM
Summary: Peter looks older, and more gentle: his voice has soft nuances, his shirt hanging open over a heavy, hairy chest covered in sailor tattoos. Martin remembers their patterns now; remembers watching the shift of the muscles underneath them, as if they truly were moving as one sea made of skin and scars.Peter is stunning, charming, cordial; he is as Martin remembers him, yet a stranger in Martin’s territory.“Do I scare you, Martin?”“Yes.” The reply comes without missing a heartbeat. Peter smirks;“Hm. Probably for the best.”Or; What if Martin and Peter had a one-night stand years before the events of TMA, and it completely redefined themselves and their relationship?Follows the events of the podcast right before Jon wakes up from his coma.





	Oublie-moi (Forget me (not))

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cuttooth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/gifts).



> It’s so sad sometimes that English is the international language ‘cause I wish I could write more in French but nobody read French in fandoms (not even myself, lmao). Anyway, just saying that to plug the song that I love to listen to while thinking about PeterMartin; _Oublie-moi_ , by Sexy Sushi. It’s a trashy underground techno song that I love, and the lyrics go something like that:
> 
> _Forget me / I have nothing to offer you but the idea of death and nasty memories / Please go away / You won’t save me, it’s cyanide running through my veins / And it’s to Lucifer that I prefer to entrust my pain._
> 
> Proof-read and beta'd by the amazing writer and friend [cuttooth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth)! They made it so much more readable, believe me, plus they're super supportive and their works is FIRE!

* * *

 

_Je n’ai rien à t’offrir_

 

Shadowed, unknown faces paint the pretty portraits haunting his nights. He moves between bodies, trying not to intrude, but they all become a single entity in that tight nightclub. Dances, laughters, kisses and movements all feel the same, under the trashy tunes spitting out of high speakers rising to the ceiling. Some lights cut through the darkness, in random pattern and moods; sometimes he sees all blue, all purple, all pink and red, and he feels drunker. The portraits of strangers around him are prettier when they’re crudely painted in neon colors. Martin would love to die in a rich purple or a dark orange.

You know, the way some colours have personalities and tastes… Or maybe they only do to him. He doesn’t talk about that to anybody, afraid of looking foolish. He is always afraid of sounding stupid. Everybody judges him so fast to be a gullible man, and that is not fair at all.

He empties his glass.

Even at work, nobody really gives him much attention; he is either ignored or mocked. Which, in the end, is better than ending up jobless because he lied to get this position, but still. People always kind of treat him that way; with mockery, and disdain. As if he doesn’t — no, as if he cannot hold any power against them. He’ll show them all otherwise, one day.

Martin is a sappy drunk. That doesn’t stop him from meeting a casual hook-up every now and then; he is a people person, and pretty much everybody is drawn to him in one way or another. His mother calls it his “blessed curse”, too much compassion for such a small heart. He’s never known what she means — and he doesn’t want to question it.

He plays with his empty glass, considering going home to savour his sour feelings while looking at the ceiling until the sunrise blooms. It shines the most gorgeous shades of pink and golden orange, when caressing the edge of his window. It makes the world of dark thoughts shift into hopeful utopia. It is one of his favorite scenes in the visual world.

“What’s your poison?” Someone asks him, right in his ear. It is the only way to be heard in this place anyway, but the voice is barely a whisper, yet clear as water.

Martin’s gaze meets hard eyes in a harder face; lines crossing everywhere, either scars or wrinkles. The man doesn’t look like a smiling personality — what made him that way? He is stunning, in a classical way. Fresh out of a museum, a relic from more secretive times when music was savoured and messages were handwritten, torn apart and lost at sea.

He is at least ten years older than Martin. He doesn’t usually go for older men, to escape the cliché of a boy with no father figure trying to find one in his own bed.

But normally, Martin is the one having to find people. Nobody really comes to him to flirt or inquire. What makes this man different? Why would a haunted, sacred man wants from a hopeful disaster like himself?

“Vodka apple?” Martin replies, way too loudly. He has excuses for his behavior: intoxication, the club, the lateness, lack of sleep, and — doubts.

“Well, I have a good rum at my place,” the man tells him. He doesn’t really try to hide the true meaning of the proposition; no coffee, no sympathy. A cordial sexual encounter to end the night on a slightly happier note.

Martin throws caution to the wind, gets to his feet. He nods. The stranger gives him a nod back, and a small but gentle smile. His eyes stay steely on Martin, and they shine strangely in the darkness. As if you could find them always moving, holding another world in their depth.

Martin must be drunker than he thought.

He looks for his coat, returns to the stranger. They silently walk towards the exit; this is the most straightforward one-night stand he has ever entertained. It feels so different to what he is used to that he doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he just follows the motion.

When they are outside, welcomed by a wet night shedding a thin rain, Martin puts his hand on the other man's coat.

“I’m— I’m Martin,” he offers, because he needs at least that to settle their engagement. A name, even a fake one, to tie the memory to a sound, a curse or a spell.

“Peter,” the reply comes. Peter’s voice is calm. Icy, unforgiving. The extreme opposite to Martin’s warmth and familiarity. What are they doing together?

“Will you come home with me, Martin?”

The orange of the streetlights coloring the night smooths his worries away. Martin nods another time, feeling unsure of his own words. His courage may be more tactile than vocal, tonight.

He is still holding onto Peter’s arm.

*******

No life-changing events happen. Since that night with Peter, Martin has had multiple other one-night-stands, but they’ve become less frequent with his new, busy workload. A boss he doesn’t know much about disappeared, and a new one replaced her, and he is — a pain in the ass, but in a sweet sense? Jon tries so hard to convince people he is better than them, but what’s truly revealed is his own self-hatred and lack of social adequacy.

The Institute eats at Martin’s routine bit by bit; each new case he works on reshapes the limits of his beliefs and exposes his insecurities. He acutely feels the shift in the atmosphere at work and in his private life; he doesn’t have the luxury to go out anymore, the darkness once welcoming or surprising has become a new horror he tries not to conjure. He spends his free time writing poetry, to read it to his mom. He isn’t exactly sure she enjoys it — what has ever done for her that she enjoyed? He reads it to her over the phone so he doesn’t have to see her sad eyes locked on his face — so he doesn’t have to try to hide the dark circles under his eyes.

An unknown force grows stronger within him and without. He doesn’t name it, in the weak hope that he still has a chance to cast it away. Reality isn’t what it once was; the future is dim, and his loneliness is a never ending battle he barely wins each day.

He keeps on fighting, at any cost. It’s the only good thing he can do.

At least the doomed ambiance at the Institute has brought him closer to one of his coworkers; Tim Stroker is one hell of a man, courageous as can be, funny and bright. Martin guesses it is one part genuine good temper and one part coping mechanism. Nonetheless, Tim helps chase the loneliness away, and supports him when Jon tends to be a little too mean to him.

_He’s such a dick sometimes,_ Tim will say. Martin would never say it, but he appreciates being listened to and supported. It feels… new, and fragile. Martin wants to protect that friendship at all cost.

He prays sometimes that bad things don’t happen to them. Nobody answers, but he stays hopeful.

******

Peter chose the sea as his home; he’s never found that feeling of pure abandonment anywhere else in the world. When his boat carries him, with no land for the eyes to settle on, with barely enough people to call it a crew, he only then truly knows himself connected to his gods. His faith manifests when he is in the middle of the waters, losing all his sense of self and orientation.

On the contrary, he absolutely hates going into the deep waters. It is: one, way too crowded in there, and two, mostly the realm of The Darkness and The Buried.

One time he spent almost a century out in the Pacific. He tried his best to always stay out of  sight of any country or isle, only feeding off fishes and filtered sea water. It was a glorious self-discovery adventure, one for the ages… Unfortunately, he also has duties inland to his Family and to the Institute.

Elias called him in for a meeting as soon as he came back from his last trip. This Institute is a depressing place as best, a deadly one at worst. Attention always crawling on his skin, eyes at the back of his neck picking at his thoughts and memories, finding any bit of information he is not willing to give away. Alliances really can conjure the worst of allies, on some occasions.

He walks the windowless corridors of the building, not yet looking for Elias; they will see each other soon enough. They always do, and probably will for a long time to come. More people haunt the place than he’s ever seen before; Gertrude trusted nobody but herself, and never kept anybody close. That new dynamic of people swarming around, lost in statements or trapped in small rooms with tape recorders is strangely menacing. Is Elias planning his own ritual? So hastily? Is he gathering as much power as possible before his final strike?

His new Archivist must be learning fast to be up for the task so soon. Peter will have to see for himself — and consider a plan of action if necessary. Elias may be an ally, but he sure as hell won’t win over him. Peter isn’t the most proud man, but he is known to fight his personal battles in a terrible, ugly way.

He crosses some strange characters’ paths — a woman devouring (perhaps being devoured by) a book about the last century industrial architecture — a feral woman looking behind her shoulder as if she was hiding from Death itself — a quite handsome fella with the purest rage coloring his warm brown eyes. Peter must know their names, somewhere in the back of his head, but the mist of loneliness around him is so comfortable, he doesn’t want to chase away its quiet melody yet.

Someone is recording another statement in a closed room; Peter takes a peek through the door’s frame, and what a gorgeous surprise he finds. He actually knows this one.

The Lonely reaches for Martin as carefully as possible so as to not disturb him. Peter wants to observe him in his usual environment; the years have been hard on the man, but somehow his soft heart remains untouched, even strengthened. He’s become a fighter — although a gentle one. Fascinating, in all aspects.

Peter cannot wait any longer; he is a cruel man, after all, and won't refuse himself any pleasure falling so nicely onto his lap.

“I think I really need to— ” Martin begins, but stops abruptly. He was thinking about looking for Melanie, or Basira, to know what is going on with them, if he can help in any way… He was always too soft with Jon, and not enough with some of the others. He wants to do well for everybody he considers his own.

But something is wrong. The air itself feels wrong. It is as if every tangible thing around him has disappeared and only he is left alive. Martin opens the door, but finds the corridor empty; the whole Archive is silent as a cemetery. A spoiled church of forgotten preachers.

“Basira?” He tries calling out,  panic blowing under his ribcage. “Melanie? ... _Tim?"_

Not a sound comes to him. He closes the door, only to nearly jump out of his skin.

“Martin, isn’t it?”

_"You— !_ Don’t move!"

Peter’s just appeared out of thin air. Why in the bloody hell is he here?! Is it a trick of his tired mind? It’s been years… What if Jon learns about him?! Martin eyes the tape recorder and watches it coming to life, getting almost sick to his stomach.

"I— Don’t come any closer, I have a _knife!"_ His mind produces the most grotesque stories when stressed — he was never a good liar under pressure, and he knows he doesn’t look threatening for a second. Especially not to to… _Him._

“Do you?” Peter’s eyes shine with genuine amusement for the barest instant; he catches himself from laughing out loud at the poor man, but oh god, isn’t Peter fond of him.

“I—”

“That would seem _wildly_ out of character, from what I’ve been told.”

“Uh, okay, well stay back!”

They look at each other with charged subtext. Are they going to keep up the façade? They both know they are being watched, and both don’t want to give away details about their private life to the others.

Martin is mad at himself for letting it happen, even though he could have never seen it coming. Peter is mad that Elias found out about Martin and tricked them into discovering one another in such a distasteful situation and place. The conditions are less than appropriate, you see.

“Please, Martin, I’m not gonna _hurt_ you. I just thought we might have a chat. Alone.”

_"Oh."_ Martin’s voice is dripping with disappointment, hurt, so much hurt and comprehension; “You’re one of them, aren’t you? A Lukas?”

Peter plays along, trying to gather as much information as he can;

_"Yes._ That’s— Peter. Pleased to meet you. Now, how did you know that?”

“I— I was just, _reading._ Jon left some notes and I—”

The mention of The Archivist leaves Martin with a nasty taste at the back of his throat. He feels like a traitor and a cheater but — how could he have known? Years back? He never meant to sleep with the enemy. He never meant to be courted by a monster.

_"Ah,_ I see. I’m sorry I have disturbed you. It’s one of Elias’ little jokes.”

“W— What?”

“Did he suggest you record a statement today? One that mentioned me?” Peter gets distracted at the thought of Martin alone in that sad room, mouthing his name again and again, realization slowly coming to him… A delightful picture to warm him at night.

“Yeah? Sort of. You know, I mean, not _you_ specifically—” Ouch.

“I have a meeting with him today. He suggested. I’m sure he’s watching from his office, grinning from ear to ear.”

That little sneaky son of a bitch... Peter will force him into an actual fist fight one day. To see what he is really made of, under all his layers of deception and lies. The bastard could use a good beating; he’d probably still smile like he knows more than the one holding his life between his hands. Pretentious prick.

The more Martin is under the effects of the Lonely, the more he is stuck, frozen to the spot, body growing cold, his senses on red alert; it’s like he is caught off guard under a predator’s gaze, unsure if it is better to make a run for it or face whatever is coming at him.

Peter looks older, and more gentle: his voice has soft nuances, his shirt hanging open over a heavy, hairy chest covered in sailor tattoos. Martin remembers their patterns now; remembers watching the shift of the muscles underneath them, as if they truly were moving as one sea made of skin and scars.

Peter is stunning, charming, cordial; he is as Martin remembers him, yet a stranger in Martin’s territory.

“Do I _scare_ you, Martin?”

“Yes.” The reply comes without missing a heartbeat. Peter smirks;

“Hm. Probably for the best.”

Their banter is a battle of power and survival; Martin lets down his guard, Peter opens up about Elias, they both start to speak to each other with an openness no strangers should share. They are revealing too much. They work so well together, Peter thinks, and if fate wants their paths to keep on joining, he will lay his heart bare to realize his new mission.

“Well,” He will go now and sort whatever clownery Elias wants resolved, and then start planning for his and Martin’s future. “I’m sure I’ve disturbed you _quite_ enough for one day. Martin, I have a meeting to get to, and a few things to tell Elias to his face about wasting _both_ our time. Be seeing you.”

Peter almost calls him “love”. If they were in another place, another time… The things they could do.

“Y— Yeah… Bye!” Martin shouts, out of breath, panic fully rising to his head.

Once Peter leaves the room, warmth returns to him; it feels like waking from a nasty dream, he is feverish and drenched in cold sweat. Martin falls into his chair, grasping at his face with both hands;

“...What?!”

He later tries to burn the tape that recorded the conversation, but to no avail.

*****

Everybody dies.

Martin cries his body’s worth of tears; nobody comes back to him. He has Jon’s hands to grasp when the sadness is too hard to bear, but it isn’t much against his overwhelming sorrow and his complete isolation. Basira doesn’t speak to him, neither does Melanie. They are trapped in a death trap of a building with no goals, no hope.

Jon doesn’t breathe; he dreams.

Martin wishes he didn’t. His mind doesn’t know how to create quiet or peaceful paintings anymore; the only pictures behind his eyes are death, torture, abandonnement. Every fear on repeat cutting, and killing, taking, burning, taking, taking, taking everything.

The hospital smell becomes synonymous with comfort, because it means he gets to see Jon. The only break he ever has in all that bloody shit he has to live through everyday. He wonders why he keeps on going; why he is so focused on protecting the few left, when he knows in his core that not much matters, in the Entities’ plans.

He is devoured by doubts for long hours, looking at Jon’s unchanging face, counting his scars and freckles to a lullaby tune. He’s lost almost everything. He fought with all he had, and he’s still almost lost everything.

What will he be willing to sacrifice, next time? His humanity? His kindness? His trust in others? What does he have to give away to feel secure once more?

The window in Jon’s room is always closed, along with the blinds and curtains. It is to prevent threats and light from entering. On particularly long days, Martin spends hours watching a cluster of spiders living inside the window’s inner corner; they take time crafting a beautiful set of cobwebs, almost as big as the window itself. The patterns sometimes move into pictures or words, when Martin is exhausted and exposed. He shouldn’t let the Web so close to Jon or himself but… He likes the company, and tells himself it is normal spiders and nothing else. He brings them small insects ordered online and watches them take the offerings, enveloping it into small, tight cocoons. Is it a sweeter death than a human one?

Months go by. He comes back every week, not really hopeful, never forgetting. The spiders spread, but he tries his best to hide them in the shadows of the curtains or of a flower vase. They brighten the room, in a sense.

Jon doesn’t wake up, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t live or die. Martin thinks in a loop; _what will I be willing to sacrifice next, to let us survive?_

He receives a first call.

“Yes, I’ll do it,” he says.

A second call comes right after;

“Mister Blackwood, it’s about your mother.”

****

The Lonely likes him best when he is fighting thunders and sea madness on his beloved Tundra; yet his gods seem to want him isolated away from his haven, as well. He is the new head of the Institute for hell knows how long, because Elias couldn't find it in himself to leave the killing to others, like he did back in the old times. Bouchard was always a selfish mate. Always thinking ahead of everybody to secure his own, stupid, petty victories.

Peter has decided, while learning the news of his promotion, to use that new change in responsibilities to claim what he wants to become his; a Blackwood becoming a Lonely protégé, breaking the Beholding’s nasty plan of using his great humanity to feed its greedy Archivist.

It is time for a proper courting, Peter thinks. He doesn't have to pretend he isn't involved in whatever Martin's destiny holds, nor that he wouldn’t kill to get another shot at tasting the cold rain on his trembling lips.

There is no sense to a romance between an Avatar and a human; but rules change. Martin isn't as human as he thinks, Peter isn't as heartless as his victims have thought. Different times and battles show people in new lights, for better or for worse. They should  just make the best of it — he is an opportunist, rule-breaker, son of a beast. He values his own enjoyment over pretty much anything else; yet he has the feeling he is stepping into new territories, and he doesn’t know what kind of trouble he will end up in.

Having Martin under him — professionally speaking, for now — is a problem if he wants to build trust between them. He could take full advantage of his position of power to abuse his boundaries; yet, he suspects this is not the way to go. Peter simply doesn’t know how to approach… kindness, without trying to break or corrupt it. Martin is good-hearted, Peter isn’t, so what does that mean? How will he make that work?

The other employees at the Institute represent too little to brush his curiosity. He sometimes watches them battle the assaults of other Entities that feel threatened or courageous. He helps them as best as he can, from the shadows, because he promised that much to Martin. This is the only way he has to show that he wants to make it work, so he won’t screw it up.

Melanie is possessed by the Slaughter and rampages the corridors of the Institute, trying to gouge blood or enemies and feast on it. He absolutely does not want to cross her path, mostly due to a personal distrust of everything too savage. He often puts a mist of the Lonely around Martin to protect him from her anger, as well. It is to keep him away from harm, sure, but there’s a possessiveness to it also. He is trying to build something for them, and the idea of somebody else intruding is less than pleasing.

Martin wouldn’t see that as a clear sign of trust, but what he doesn’t know does not hurt him — at least, not as much as other events he’s recently gone through.

Finding them a common antagonist was the best way to propose an alliance to Martin without looking too suspicious; the Extinction has been Peter’s side quest for a few decades. It was discussed before with some others, but mostly dismissed. Which is never a sane way to go when it comes to the Fears and their powers. Knowing your enemies makes you more prepared to know where and when to step in. If an apocalypse were to come, of course the End would savour its glory, but no soul would be left to feel abandoned in the lightless nights of an undying summer nightmare, when love and compassion leaves you to rot in your own unwitnessed tragedy.

Martin was wary, at first. It  probably sounded like a silly pretense, to trick him into doing something he wouldn’t want — to betray his friends or the Archivist. But the proof of statements slowly convinced him, and Peter was sincere on that subject at least. Yeah, he wasn’t exactly clear about his full intentions towards Martin, but he truly was worried about the rise of a fifteenth entity, something possibly able to destroy everything that kept his people alive.

Working with Martin is amazingly smooth, the man being very serious and obedient, always wanting to please even if he doesn’t want to admit so to himself. He doesn’t know much, but he will be damned if he doesn’t try to find his way through it all anyway. Peter spent days playfully noticing the way he fusses over tea kettles and computers because they are his properties to manoeuvre — it doesn’t help Peter’s cause that he is complete shit at it.

Peter is the muscles and Martin the brain, in the idea that Martin makes the calls and Peter executes them; Martin offers knowledge and Peter assures protection.

Is it a balanced dynamic? Peter doesn’t really know, nor care for it. He appreciates the sweetness that comes from listening to Martin explains simple concepts to him, or looking after him when he walks back home to assure nobody — or nothing — lays a finger on him.

Their world has narrowed to only the two of them. Peter goes back to his Family for reports and silent dinner parties, Martin sneaks out sometimes to bring Jon flowers, but overall, it is them against the world.

Peter wants it that way. Peter wants Martin to want it to, yet he doesn’t know why or how.

***

It is another day researching an obscure, awakening threat; rain hits the windows in a deafening rhythm, little light come from the outside despite being only noon, silence taking over the building in a familiar embrace.

This room has been claimed as their own without ever voicing it; they took it for themselves, and they’ve lived here for months. Its cold air hits you when you open the door, its scent a mix of Peter’s cologne and Martin’s mugs of cold tea. It is not a home, it is not welcoming. It is a compromise in a situation when nothing better is available.

What are they even doing here? Martin could pretend Peter is manipulating him into joining the Lonely’s realm; but he is here, in this instant, of his own volition. He is not saying they don’t keep secrets from each other, private plans for private victories… But they are both trapped, and closing the trap, now. They are equal forces.

That should terrify Martin. He is a single man, with no powers or bad bones in his body. He’s always tried his best to be a good person, never wanted to harm the people in his life. He doesn’t know if he ever truly knew himself, before he joined the Institute.

“Why did you pick me up that night?” He finally asks. The wait has been stretched for years; the mystery kept under a blanket of remorse and wishful thinking.

Peter could play it dumb. He does it so often, either by mood or strategy. It is a critical moment; one bad answer could make everything they’ve built so far crumble, but he is sure he won’t be able to make any more progress without going through it.

“What do you want, Martin? An honest answer, or a satisfying one?”

Martin closes his eyes harshly. He doesn’t want what he needs, and he doesn’t want to make choices.

“Peter, please,” he begs, unable to do much more.

“Alright… Well, I didn’t know you, as strange as that may sound.” He swallows, anxious. Sincerity is not his color. “I was in need of feeding; the club wasn’t very far from the dock, and I found you easily. Nobody was as lonely as you were, on that night.”

It hurts, of course it does. Martin’s heart is like a fruit, bruising easily without breaking the skin. He keeps his head straight, focusing on keeping the tears at bay.

“Then— Why didn’t you just, I don’t know, make me _disappear?_ Once you were done?”

“Martin…”

_"Please,_ Peter, I need— I need to know.”

“I took pity on you, Martin.” Peter’s voice is deep, low, sorry. He is confessing something he didn’t want to share, particularly within the Institute’s walls, where each word leaves a physical trace. “Everything I could make you endure wasn’t worth the trouble, as fragile as you were already. We spent a lovely night, and that was enough.”

“So— What you’re saying is that— I was so _pathetic_ that just _fucking_ me was enough to feed your— your gods!” Martin cries out, forgetting humility and patience. Something inside his chest unties, but another little monster takes its place, somewhat smaller but darker, pieces of coal dancing inside his lungs.

“Don’t do that to yourself, Martin.”

“So you’re trying to finish the job, now?!”

“I am not, Martin.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Good,” Peter sighs. They should never allow themselves that kind of vulnerability. “I enjoy your company, as another man. I think back to our night with fondness, you know. We’ve both changed.”

Martin doesn’t reply. He won’t meet Peter’s gaze, in case he finds something in there he is not ready to conceive.

“... So you didn’t know I worked at the Institute, back then?”

“As hard as it is to imagine, not _everything_ I do is part of a ploy. If I had known, I wouldn’t have bothered. Elias’ grasp on you makes you a liability. You see, it hurt my cause more than anything else, because it gave him… Metaphorical _dirt_ on me.”

“Elias knew?!”

“He may not always be looking your way, but he looks mine pretty much all the time. He is a parasite like _that._ He loves to watch me suffer. Through you, he thought he could gain power over _me._ He was bloody annoyed that we didn’t meet again, after that night. Hence why he made us meet again at the Institute, months ago.”

Martin raises his eyes only to look at Peter’s hands; they show his temper, without the risk of reading his emotions in raw light. His fingers form fists at his side, the muscles of his forearms tense, and slight goosebumps blanket his inked skin.

“How can I know you’re telling the truth?” Martin spits out, polite amiability thrown out the window.

“You don’t have the power to read people like statements, and neither do I. You won’t ever be certain. My word is only worth what _you_ put into it.”

“Can you stop your obscure nonsense for two _bloody_ seconds?!”

Peter frowns — at least Martin thinks he does, he won’t look for himself.

“I don’t have anything to offer you but myself, I guess.”

Martin instantly hates those words. What they say, _could_ say and will never say. It is still obscure, but it isn’t bullshit. Peter is laying his truth out for Martin to judge his sincerity. When does a monster stop being one? Can a monster accept his nature and try to stray from it at the same time?

Martin didn’t know back then that he was laying with something like that. He had the excuse — the explanation of blissful ignorance. He should not make that mistake again, now that he knows; but the morals he had back them aren’t the same now, and the handsome stranger has become a man close to his heart, capturing his interest.

He doesn’t want to choose, and can’t have it both ways.

“Don’t,” he replies, breathless. He cannot find the strength to confront whatever this is. It would be easier if he were absolutely sure that it was a trap, a false premise — but the risk of it being true is the most menacing part of the situation. He doesn’t want to open the door to more danger; he wants to believe he has the choice to ignore his feelings, and think of the greater good.

(Does he know what it means? Not anymore, but he keeps lying to himself.)

“Please,” Martin continues, “go away.”

His voice, small as a whisper, casts the spell; it is a definite refusal to whatever Peter wanted to express. It is complete, destructive denial.

Martin opens his eyes to find himself alone in the room. Peter’s scent lingers near the bookshelf; the rain is still pouring, unmoved.

He is not going to cry. He doesn’t have the luxury of feeling or getting involved in somebody else’s well being; Peter will be fine. He’ll soon find another subject for his attention. And if it hurts Martin to think about it, that’s fine. Everything is fine. The world is ending, and Martin is sobbing alone in the Institute over a monster’s confession of love.

He is… not fine, is he?

**

Heartbreaks taste of seawater. Almost like tears, or sweat, but carrying more history in their flavor.

Peter makes himself invisible for a week. He doesn’t visit the Institute, or his Family, and certainly not Elias. He wanders the dock, feeds off sailors coming back from long trips with tired souls. He hangs out at the club where he once found a Martin that had actually wanted his company, for a night at least.

When spending so long in the Lonely’s mist, his body loses its ability to experience touch, or smell. His connection to the physical world is mostly based on visual cues; he watches the motions around him like performative art. It is neither entertaining nor tiring. It means… Nothing to him anymore.  
Peter is grateful for the numbness that’s symptomatic to the Lonely’s hold. A good medicine to help shut down the part of himself that reaches for humanity, for a possible way to start anew. He was foolish to let himself drift to hopeful reveries when he is, in the end, simply a tool for gods who command sacrifices and nothing more. He shouldn’t have tried to be his own person and find himself another mission. He is an avatar of the Lonely. This whole dramatic self-imposed exile is gourmet food for his patron, so he remains useful at least.

He wonders if another of the Lukases will take his place at the archives’ head. He misses the sea, and he hopes it misses him as well. They are soulmates, in their own way.

He has lost himself. His past self, maybe his true self? Trapped on lands with sweet men who aren’t meant for him.

The Institute is, ironically enough, less desolate in the middle of the night. Once everyone is asleep, the silence is not tense anymore but peaceful, finally balanced. He takes a deep breath, and goes to fetch some of his remaining information on the Extinction’s progress. Martin’s refusal of him won’t mean anything soon, when they are faced with total annihilation.

Could Martin be waiting for him? He is surely at home, at this hour. The reason Peter picked this time to sneak in. The simple thought of it pains him in a grotesque way.

He opens their— The room they used to work in for hours, or sometimes days. It feels wrong, stripped of its identity; no mugs are left on the corner of the table, every file and tape is tidied away, not a soul has passed there since he left.

Peter sits on the chair in the middle of it all, suddenly exhausted to his very bones. Has he forgotten to sleep in the last week? Who knows, and who cares.

A post-it is taped on the old-fashioned desk computer, handwritten by Martin — he uses cursive, and fat dots over some on his ‘i’s.

_“What do you really want?”_ it asks.

Peter turns the piece of paper to find an address scrambled behind; a hotel room number, but with no key or any other information.

He doesn’t understand the prompt; he made his desires clear. Didn’t he? Language can be tricky like that, more so when you are usually silent for indefinite periods of time, on a boat with the sea who only speaks in thunder and crashing waves. He wonders if any tape recorder spied on their scenes so he can listen to what they said, pinpoint the moment where they might have lost touch with each other’s message.

But the Eye is greedy and only offers knowledge to its Archivist and its obedient pricks.

Sticky note in hand, Peter decides to check the hotel just in case. For the thrill of it. Absolutely not for the small hope, growing like poisonous lichen inside his guts, that maybe Martin wants to see him. To accept him. To give them another shot.

His loneliness is killing him for the first time. His patron licks at his wounds as it were a fine wine that ages with grace. He disappears into the Lonely, chasing the bliss of not being anybody once again.

*

Martin didn’t want to confront Peter in his apartment or at the Institute. He thought a neutral ground would be better, and hopefully keep away the Beholding’s nasty habit of listening in on them. The room is bigger than he had expected it to be for its price, but the shower spray is irregular and too hot, most of its tiles are broken and the toilet doesn’t flush all the way. It still feels a little bit like camping, or being on a sad vacation, because it has been forever since he has slept outside of his own bed for more than two days in a row.

Martin would not admit it, but the slow fading of Peter’s scent on his clothes affected him more than he anticipated. Finally separated for a long period of time, Martin had the space to realize how stupidly domestic they had become. It was natural and had happened over time and comfort. Maybe some unconfessed trust, even.

He has decided that if Peter doesn’t show up in another week, he will try to find information on his own; as a last resort, he’ll visit Elias and make a deal of some kind to get what he needs for his investigation. Elias should know by now that Martin isn’t the useless asset of the Institute, and he must have an idea about Martin’s ability to dissemble truths to cover his good intentions.

Martin fills his wait by working through statements, and Gertrude's complete nonsensical logic in organizing them; he’s also fallen back into the reassurance of writing listless poetry. He reads his favorite authors to occupy his sleepless nights, and has fallen in love again with the candid simplicity of Verlaine's words;

_It rains in my heart,_

_As it rains on the town_

_What languor so dark_

_That it soaks to my heart?_

Martin repeats those words to himself as his talisman, the balm spell whispered into his very wounds in hope of healing. He is very good at being on his own, having learned that most of his life will be spent alone, and it is better to accept it than fight. He pours the energy it saves him into his work, and tries his best to forget, or not lose focus of his goals.

Stop the Extinction.

Bring back Jon.

Find out what Peter wants.

Find out what he wants, as well.

Martin doesn’t have all the answers, and introspection isn’t his best asset; he has always valued others’ happiness and contentment over his own. Taking the time to know what he desires, in all of this… Never really occurred to him, until he was faced with somebody that wanted him to.

Would Peter be a jealous lover? A lover at all? Would he court him, or keep him as a dirty secret? His human toy, a distraction to take the edge off being an Avatar. Relationships are not easy, most call them messy, but how could he entertain engaging in one with a non-human demi-god of fear? A messiah, or whatever the non-christian equivalent is.

Is love even a concept that can be applied to such a situation? Peter still calls himself a man… Is it delusion? Or the complexity of one charged to serve forces that depends on his humanity to destroy other people’s?

Too much to think about, in a less than ideal situation. Who would make time to think about dating? Or… Partnering, in an emotional and physical way, with an ally wearing the enemy’s colors?

This is too much, too fast. Martin walks out of his room, rain pouring as a constant melody, laying its notes in heavy drops on his head. In less than a minute, he is drenched. The tiny enclosed garden of the hotel building isn’t much, and nobody is out at this hour. The rain is cold in the deep night, reminding him of his first encounter with a stranger who had no sympathy in his eyes, but with a warm smile and generous embraces.

_Oh sweet sound of the rain_

_On the earth and the roofs!_

_For the dull heart again,_

_Oh the song of the rain!_

Poetry wouldn’t be the cross-stitch pattern on his life if it wasn’t at this exact moment they met again, in a strange place under a harsh weather.

The only sound coming to Martin is the rain, and maybe that should have been enough to tip him off; it is a cold night, but not as cold as to remind him of the times as a child when he would spend hours out in the garden to stop hearing the sobbing of his grieving mom.

“What do _you_ bloody want?”

Peter’s shirt is transparent with rain, his greying hair plastered around his face. He is standing, untouched, because he is made of the cold of the night and the isolation of the rain. He is stunning. Surreal. Everything you would expect from a mirage, and a trickster.

“I want to know what you want from me,” Martin repeats simply.

“Martin, I thought I made myself clear.”

“Say it.”

Peter stiffens — from uncertainty? Preparing himself for a fight?

The Lonely’s hold grasps at Martin’s skin, freezing, reminding him of what he would sacrifice, of what it would cost him to join Peter.

“I want you, Martin.”

“To join the Lonely?”

“To be by my side. As an ally, and a partner. Well, it all depends what you’d be willing to offer me, but I would settle for very little, if it means we’d be together.”

“So is it— an alliance? Between the Beholding and the Lonely? Until Jon— Until he wakes up, and takes my place?”

Peter sighs loudly, his patience running thin. Martin needs certainty; he wants to be absolutely sure of what he is stepping into, that what this will cost him will not be in vain… Or at least, won’t count for nothing. He wants reciprocity, for the first time in his life. He wants to impose his conditions, and be of equal value to the one he gives himself to.

“Martin. Stop your silly game. I cannot promise you a happy future. Well, I could lie, but you deserve sincere expectations. I am offering myself to you. I want you to be mine, and to become yours.”

Martin’s heart beats so hard, it seems willing to break ribs and skin and jump out of his throat. But what if it was the last trap of the Lonely? To offer him comfort, and a feeling of being wanted, only to strip it all away as soon as the idea of happiness blossoms into his mind? What if—

“Your faith is all I’m asking for. Have some faith in me. Let me be yours, and as long as you hold my heart, if I were to break yours, you’ll have the power to do it as well.”

“But what if— “

“Look at me.”

This time, Martin dares to hold Peter’s gaze; his eyes of steel and sea never truly smoothed over time, but their harshness can’t hide the exposed sincerity of the proposition. One soul for another; not alliances in tactics, but in body and spirit.

What will he be willing to sacrifice next to survive, he had asked himself. What would be the new challenge to assure his future, and his friends’, and Jon’s?

Letting his guard all the way down. Exposing himself to an unfathomable danger that could cost him everything, but give him the tools to bring Peter down with him when the time comes.

“Would that mean that— would I stop being human? I mean, would, for example, kissing you? Again? Make me something else?”

Peter shrugs, playfulness gone, but his warm smile stronger than it ever was.

“I don’t know. What if we find out? I could be the one becoming human, all things considered.” And hope, perverse, useless but striking hope suddenly sparks in Martin’s guts and he goes for it.

He kisses Peter once more, after years of trying to remember how it felt. It feels desperate, uncomfortable, burning in the cold of the Lonely and of the rain. It tastes familiar and foreign; but when Peter laughs, no mockery in his tone but genuine, joyful relief, Martin allows himself to smile as well.

No other mistake he made had ever felt so right. 


End file.
